


Guardianswap

by Pistols_at_Dawn



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Gen, Illustrated, Illustrations, bloodswap, guardianswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pistols_at_Dawn/pseuds/Pistols_at_Dawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guardianswap AU: the adventures of Rose Strider, Dave Lalonde, John Harley and Jade Egbert.<br/>Now illustrated!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rose Strider

With steely eyes you meet the unflinching gaze of your target. The fine hairs on the back of your neck stand up under the chill of his unsettling blue eyes, but you make no movement. Nothing that could give you away, nothing that could –inconceivable!- break your nerve. You are the tiger. You are liquid steel. You are pure diamond irony.

You are Rose Strider and you are about to attempt the most dangerous stunt of your life.

You launch into the flash step, halfway across the room in one step, leaping onto your brother's dresser with the next. Your fingers fumble as you pull out the deliciously ironic, Cal-sized sweater you've knitted in horrible clashing stripes of orange and pink, and quickly yank it over Lil' Cal's arms. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, and you avoid Cal's gaze, which you swear turns to meet you. Doing up the buttons is agonizingly slow: why didn't you opt for the pull over?! To anyone else you would appear calm, even relaxed, but you know that act wouldn't fool Bro if he catches you. Finally, the puppet is finished, dapper in his fancy new attire. To slow! You leap off the dresser and flash step back toward the door.

You run into your brother and fall flat on your butt.

"Hello Rose."

"Hello Bro." Bro leans calmly against the doorframe and watches you from behind ironic pointed shades. Your own inscrutably stoic expression mirrors his. You stay sitting, like you intended to be here all along, just relaxing sprawled across your brothers bedroom floor with a single tell tale drop of nervous sweat rolling along your hairline unacknowledged.

"Nice flash stepping." Ironic. You have no talent for flash stepping and you both know it.

"Thanks." Equally ironic. And flippantly rude: you would never use a single word where two would do, thanks instead of thank you. Bro straightens, and you take a momentary break from analyzing every word you say or don't say for hidden meanings to watch him step around you toward the puppet. You hope he appreciates the amount of effort you put into this ironic passive aggressive gesture.

He does, of course. Bro misses nothing. His expression remains impassive, but you see him read the custom tag, which declares the sweater to be made of 200% L ve (and 8 percent wool). He nods with what might be approval and sets Cal back on his dresser, sweater and all. You take this as your cue to stand up.

As soon as you stand up you leap into the air, a razor sharp ninja star slicing the air under your converses, another almost shearing your perfectly gelled hair. You land in fighting stance and snatch your knitting needles out of your sylladex as you hit the ground. You know Bro doesn't approve of the knitting needles: because they are a rejection of your lifelong training with a katana, and because, you secretly believe, they are actually more ironic than his shitty sword, and he can't copy the idea without admitting defeat. A rare victory for you, infinitely worth the effort needed to train with knitting needles against a sword.

This fight isn't going to be in his bedroom. Bro flash steps past you and up the stairs, you trailing behind already. You arrive on the roof mere seconds after he does, but somehow he's nonetheless had the time to set up a lounge chair and crappy shade umbrella against the searing Texas sun. He lounges underneath, sipping a cool drink when you flash step onto the concrete.

"Afternoon, Sis." He greets you, flash stepping toward you almost casually. His katana gleams where it hangs languidly by his side. "You seen the new My Little Pony yet?"

You are deeply suspicious that he doesn't watch that quite as ironically as he claims. "I'm waiting until it's old." You inform him, dodging left when he leaps at you suddenly. His casual act hadn't fooled you for a second. "Currently I'm busy writing my multi-chapter analysis of why Dora the Explorer is secretly a metaphor for the horrific tentacled fiend which shall soon descend from the sky and devour us all." You counter with a low stab towards his feet which is dodged more easily than a falling feather.

"Should I assume that these tentacles could easily be used for some good filming?" Bro leaps into the air and gives a back flip which is obviously just for show, clipping you with one heel when you jump away from his kick to slowly. You barely manage to restrain from wincing.

"You're going to assume that no matter what I say." With a flick of your fingers, a piece of knitting is stretched between your knitting needles, a perfect slingshot, and Bro effortlessly leaps through the hail of pebbles you fling at him.

"True enough." He concedes as he flings each pebble back at you with his katana like a baseball player on forty shots of espresso. You are less adept at dodging and receive a few bruises from the hail of gravel. "Nothing that exists or that you claim exists can't be used for interesting purposes by a determined pornographer."

"This is all going in my notebook, you know." You plan to someday publish a comprehensive analysis of your brother's psyche, either as evidence in his trial or as a horror novel, depending on how things turn out. Bro nods and tosses a cherry bomb at you. It's way too slow: obviously a distraction. Or an ironic attempt to double trick you into thinking it's a distraction, so that he can actually get you with a gentle underhand toss of a small firework? While you're thinking about this the cherry bomb goes off beside your feet and you have to flash step out of the way instead of throwing it back.

"Nice moves." Bro says. You grumble at your brother's comment. One bad move and you're back to ironic condescension again. You leap at him again, and are straight-armed back out of his way. You land in front of him back in ready position.

_Deedle Deedle Deedle._

That's the garishly ironic tone of your cell phone, a text message from one of your friends. While you're glancing down at the pink phone clipped to the waistline of your brown denim miniskirt, you receive an unceremonious boot to the head that sends you soaring across the roof, skidding along the sun-baked concrete on your back. By the time you reach the edge you've decided to give up for the moment, so instead of leaping up you roll to your feet and vault the pathetic "safety" rail someone installed along the edge of the roof some years back, when they first saw you as a toddler wandering around up here. You hear Bro's huff of annoyance when you abscond, but you've already kicked open your window and landed casually on your bedroom floor. You flick open your phone.

gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering tentacleTherepist [TT].  
GG: hey rose!  
GG: rose!  
GG: stop switching the marshmallows in the cereals and answer me for once  
GG: that's not even ironic  
GG: its just weird  
GG: rose strider! where are you?

You roll your eyes at your best friend's impatience and answer Jade Egbert, already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit for roses outfit to my sister! ^^


	2. Jade Egbert

Your name is Jade Egbert and you are very deeply exited, in all possible ways. You have not been this excited about the existence of a thing which exists since almost last Thursday. Today is the day that the Sburb beta arrives! It also just so happens to be your friend John Harley’s birthday. You suddenly wonder if his copy of the game will get to him in time, since everything takes so long to get to wherever-the-heck he lives. 

You don’t have time to worry about it though: you have far to many exciting endeavors planned for today! Besides, even if John doesn’t get his copy, he’ll still get the present you remembered to mail several months ago, (when Rose reminded you, but that’s not the point.) You should go wish him a happy birthday! But first, actually you should get dressed! and organize your stuffed animals! And say good morning to your Dad! No wait!

First you should go pee, actually, you kind of got distracted.

A few minutes later, you are dressed in a nice skirt and a t-shirt featuring your chosen symbol, with your hair pulled back in a sensible braid, and heading downstairs towards the homey smell of baking bread wafting in from the kitchen. You make it all the way to the top of the stairs without incident, and you are considering going for the record (you once made it all the way to the living room without causing trouble), when you spy a brightly colored pile of plush at the bottom of the stairs, positioned so invitingly that it ought to be considered a crime to go downstairs any way other than by leaping into it from the top of the stairs. _Of course,_ you grumble to yourself as you back up for the leap _in this household its considered more of a crime to jump in it at all_. You can’t help if your Dad is no fun.

With a short and less than ladylike yelp of joy, you leap into the air, arms pinwheeling, aiming for your plush landing pad. The pile of squiddles (yet another of the myriad interests you and your dad share!) looks so soft, so inviting, so cozy…

You land half asleep and shake off the feeling. You inform your narcolepsy that you just woke up, buddy, and it can hold off another few minutes for a nap! It grumbles at you as you crawl out of the stuffed toys, as if to say that _well, you’re the one who missed her late-afternoon nap yesterday, miss high ‘n mighty, and if you’re tired maybe you shouldn’t be jumping down flights of stairs in the first place_. Of course, you may actually be making all this up, since the generally accepted viewpoint of very logical, science minded people with lab coats is that narcolepsy is not and never has been a sentient being capable of arguing with anyone.

Scientists also say that you don’t actually go to a magical land of carapace people and golden towers when you sleep, too, so what do they know.

“Good morning, Jade.” A stern, fatherly voice calls out from the vicinity of the kitchen. 

“’Morning Dad!!” You make a vague effort to straighten the Squiddles, knowing that he’ll notice anyway and probably already has, and skip into the kitchen. “Did the beta come yet?!”

“No, dear.” Your father informs you in tones imbued (A/N: is that a real word?) with perfectly measured amounts of warmth, patience and subtle fatherly amusement. You fail to notice any of that, since you are not Rose, and because you are to busy squinting through the oven window at the rolls that you had smelled earlier.

“Are _these_ done yet?” You ask, demonstrating one of your patented flash-subject-changes.

“No, dear.” Dad shoots back with a subject change of his own. “Is your room clean?”

The corner of your mouth twists downward into what could definitely be construed as a grimace. “Yes,” you lie.

“Eat your breakfast first, young lady. Then clean your room. Videos games when your room is clean.”

“But _Dad_!” You don’t actually have an argument against this, you just feel like complaining. In this case you are distracted before you can turn this into a strife. Could it be? Yes! There is definitely, undeniably, without a question, something shiny in the backyard! You love shiny things! When you get to the window you also notice that the red flappy thingy that means the mail is here, is up. You are now doubly excited. So excited you just have to sing.

“I gotta sing! I gotta-“

Your father gently nudges you out of the kitchen with his broom and you dance towards the breakfast table instead.

_Deedle Deedle Deedle!_

That’s the delightfully cheerful tune from your cell that informs you that you have a new message. Your friend rose has the exact same tune on her cell phone, which you think is sweet. You swear that someday you will read the four page essay she send you detailing why exactly her use of the same tone represents her inner turmoil and irony. According to Dave Lalonde, who did read it, the essay meanders into wizard themed porn at some point, an intriguing promise which has nonetheless failed to coax you past the first paragraph without putting you to sleep. 

You pour yourself some cereal and enjoy the brand-authorized goodness of Betty Crocker Sugar Flakes while you answer.

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering gardenGnostic [GG].   
TG:hey egbert.   
TG: sup.   
GG: hey dave!! :)   
GG: not much. oh, well, I think my copy of sburb came in!   
TG:cool  
GG: yeah, but my dad wont let me get it :( I have to clean my room first  
TG:damn, tough shit  
TG:I got mine this morning. course it got managed to get completely wet on the walk back up our mile long driveway, which I didn’t notice on account of I was already 83% rain water from the walk down to it  
TG:so I got it hanging by the window to dry  
GG: good plan   
TG:im king of fantastic ideas, Egbert, make sure you never forget that  
TG:i am sole proprietor of absolute quintillions of fantastic ass plans competing for my goodwill that they might be shared with the world  
GG: wow!   
GG: thanks for telling me, ill be sure to remember that  
TG:course you will  
TG:every inane syllable that dribbles from my pert, musically inclined lips ought to be recorded for posterity  
GG: haha, ok! :) so, how’s this game work, anyway?   
TG:i dunno  
TG:i think we get to build each others houses or some shit  
GG: that sounds fun  
GG: can i build yours? :D  
TG:my house is the shit, egbert.   
TG:but i guess i trust you  
TG:just leave the diamond mines alone and youll be cool  
GG: you know I don’t believe you about that for a second, right?   
TG: prepare to be shocked   
GG: yeah, right! XP well, I guess well see when I get my room cleaned  
TG: you do that  
GG: ok, i will! ill text you when im done!   
TG:ill be waiting. bated breath  
TG:i guess i should clean up some of these mystical sparkly dildos cluttering up the place, wouldn’t want to shock your virgin eyes when you come to mess with my mansion  
GG: ew!! D: bye dave!   
gardenGnostic [GG] stopped pestering turntechGodhead [TG]. 

You finish your cereal as quickly as possible, and leap the stairs two at a time back up toward your room. Your progress in the challenging act of shoving everything you own into your closet is slowed by your tendancy to drift towards the window, and to gaze at the red flappy thing gleaming forlornly in the morning light, all alone. So lonely, so cold…

You briefly stop thinking about the game to wonder how John is doing. You still haven’t wished him a happy birthday! That is so inconsiderate of you, wishing John a happy birthday is a much higher priority than playing Jenga with cardboard boxes found under you bed. He’s all alone on that island too: he doesn’t even have an internally personified genetic disorder like your narcolepsy to talk to! Of course, he has Strider and Lalonde but, well…

You _really_ ought to talk to him! 

ghostlyTrickster [GT] is an idle chum!

Huh. Probably off fighting mythical beasts again, you suppose. You shrug and decide to talk to Rose instead. Anything other than cleaning your room. 

gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering tentacleTherepist [TT].  
GG: hey rose!  
GG: rose!  
GG: stop switching the marshmallows in the cereals and answer me for once


	3. Dave Lalonde

You may have been lying about the diamond mines and the dildos (mostly) but you definitely weren’t kidding about the rain. It’s been coming down in sheets for days on end, and every time you look out your windows at the forest fires you can barely see through the pouring rain you remember how grateful you are to live in a huge ass mansion instead of some shitty apartment in Houston like Strider. Though to be fair, you don’t think they get rain like this, there. Or forest fires.

You might as well clean up a little, if Jade is going to be messing with your house. Make sure there actually aren’t any sparkly pink dildos lying around. Unlikely, but it won’t be the first time your Mom’s left her toys around for the apparent sole purpose of scarring you for life. You once mentioned it to Rose, during one of the online therapy sessions she insisted on, which unexpectedly sent her on a ten minute screaming rampage, shouting how you _had no idea_ how easy you had it and you were freaked out over _one motherfucking dildo?!? Did you have any idea how many dildos were currently in her direct line of site?? Because the answer is twenty four! TWENTY FOUR DILDOS, Dave!!_

You have since refrained from bringing up dildos to Rose.

After you shove a few unsightly things in drawers, you hunt down the classy gray contact lenses your Mom bought for you to hide your embarrassing eye color on the rare occasions when you actually meet anyone. With most of your friends online and your nearest neighbor twenty minutes away, it’s easy to forget that you are a mutant freak. You also tuck in your shirt, and refrain from putting on a tie, even though you do have a sweet red one that matches the fire.

In any case, you think you may actually have more pressing problems than how you look, for once. Your Mom hasn’t said anything about the fires, yet, but you are honestly getting a bit concerned about them. The world deserves to have Dave Lalonde live.

Your concerns are suddenly extremely justified when the power flickers out. The various motors humming in the background, not to mention your mix tapes, all go quiet, and for a few moments the only sounds are the rain pattering on the window and the loud string of colorful curses you shout at whatever shitty gods you have suddenly decided to believe in.

You duck out of your room, which adds a cacophony of various musical instruments being tripped over to the noise. A flash of lightning throws everything into sharp relief for a split second before relinquishing the stage to a very nicely timed rumble of thunder: obviously the storm is eager to join your percussion-only one-man band. Being the softy that you are, you indulge it a bit by knocking over a set of drums and swearing even louder. You don’t have time to make noise all night though. You have to get the generator working.

With another few crashes you manage to stumble out of your oversized room into the hallway, which is better-lit anyway. Lightning outlines the grand high ceilinged hallways that permeate your house, wandering in no particular direction before they all wind up at a bar somewhere, like your house has been drilled through by giant alcoholic termites. You pause in front of the glass window taking up an entire wall beside your room, to get your breath back, and to watch the roaring forest fire that has been steadily approaching your house for the last few days, headless of the rain. You might even call them… _sick flames_. 

To be honest, though, you find these so called sick flames a little disappointing. They are just far too contained. Where’s the running and screaming? What the hell kind of lame ass fire approaches slowly and with plenty of warning? Seriously, this shit is just sad. _Bambi_ had scarier fires than this.

At least the meteors are cool.

You stand by the window for a moment, watching the rain run down the glass and blur the fire into flickering red streaks across the hallway, smooth as a lava lamp. What little of the early morning light manages to filter through the storm clouds is washed out gray, outshone by the brilliant meteors and flashy forest fires, like a classy understated picture frame holding a tacky stretched out jpeg of a glittery purple wizard. You can’t even tell if it’s dawn yet, though you suspect it isn’t: you’ve always been an early riser.

You watch the rain for a few moments until yourheart calms down. You hadn’t realized it was racing. You hadn’t even realized, in fact, that you were freaking out low-key, cause Dave Lalonde does not freak out, until you remembered knocking over all of your lovely instruments, and your mouth turns down as you try to recall if you broke anything unfixable. You adore your instruments, every one, they are literally the love of your life and someday you will marry them in a gigantic ceremony and everyone will cry. Your Mom must have bought you every instrument which was known to man, and several which were not. You are literally the best (and only) Tutu-zilla player in the world.

Another crash of thunder, almost exactly at the same time as the lightning this time, startles you back into the moment, and you decide that your matrimonial intentions towards inanimate objects can be better explored once you get the lights back on. You slink easily down the hall, all long limbs and disproportionate teenage height, a look which would be called gangly on anyone else, but when you have ballet instead of friends, you learn to make it work. You are as smooth as the rain, as deliberate as the disappointingly deliberate fire.

“Daveyyy…!!”

It seems your Mom’s awake. You wonder sacrilegiously if you can just avoid her this once… not just because of the outage, but because this early in the morning she might be sober enough to notice that you’re dressed up, and it’s only just occurred to you that you’ve failed to ask whether Jade is allowed to rearrange your house. Oops.

“Daaaavey.” You duck into a side hall, peering down the main hallway as you try to figure out over the noise where her voice is coming from.

From behind you, apparently. “Daaavey!” Your Mom croons, clutching you from behind and shoving your face into her armpit. You gag and try to rearrange your position to make this hug a bit less awkward but that just puts your face in what Rose would refer to as her _ample bosom_ , and that’s actually much worse.

“Mom.” You choke. “ _Mom._ ”

“What are you doing up so late Davey?” She asks, letting you go at last. You gasp for air and attempt to repress the memories. 

“It’s not late, mom. It’s early. It’s not even _that_ early.”

“Hm.” She slurs thoughtfully. “where’re you going?”

“That… way?” You think it might not be the brightest idea to mention the generator, or that you plan to play with electricity in the rain.  She quirks an eyebrow at you.

“Are you now? An what lies ‘that way’, may I ask?”

“The… bathroom.” No it doesn’t. The single bathroom in this mansion is two hallways down in the other direction exactly.

Come to think of it, you’ve never seen your Mom actually use the bathroom. You suspect that she may have her own hidden toilets burrowed somewhere in this confusing sprawl of a home, and frankly you hope she does because the alternatives are deeply disturbing.  

“Nice try.” Mom isn’t drunk enough for that to work, apparently. She snatches your wrist in the hand that isn’t balancing a martini glass, and drags you down the hall in the same direction you were going anyway. You grumble something incomprehensible in protest, but you don’t bother trying to pull away. Her grip is like iron and what of ungrateful son would you be, then, anyway? You stumble after her instead, thinking how Rose would appreciate the irony that the sober boy is stumbling when his drunken mother stalks down the dark hallway in perfectly measured steps, the click clack of her heels as even as a drumbeat.

“What’s the matter?” you ask when she pulls you around the corner into the kitchen, and releases her grip on your wrist to start sorting through cupboards.

“Candles.” she explains, tossing something over her shoulder at you. She doesn’t wait to see if you catch the matches before she’s throwing you a sweet gothic candelabra far to elaborate to carry around the house, that is, unless you’re a Lalonde, in which case it’s exactly the bare minimum of decoration allowed for wandering around an empty house at six thirty in the morning.

“Is the backup generator on?” You ask as you light the red candles. This is a stupid question, obviously if the backup generator were you wouldn’t be carrying candles. But your brain is busy failing to figure out how to solve the sBurb problem, so your mouth has been put in charge of speaking, and your mouth has always been something of a brainless beauty. 

“It will be when I start it!” Mom giggles like this was comedy gold and lights her candle from yours. Hers is tapered and pink, set in a crystal candleholder, and gives off a faint scent of strawberries when it burns. You think yours is cooler.

Mom raises her candle and sets off towards the stairs. She raises an eyebrow when you make to follow her and holds her candle up to block you, like a fencer who’s decided that swords just don’t hold that thrill anymore, and has decided to fence with fire instead.

“And where do you think _you’re_ going, Davey sweet?” 

“With you…?” You have a sinking feeling that you aren’t, in fact, going with her.

“I’m sure.” She materializes a second martini from somewhere and offers it to you. “Stay here and enjoy yourself, I’ll be right back.”

“ _Mom._ I’m thirteen.” She shrugs and sets the martini on the counter, well within your reach. 

“Good point. Thirteen year olds can’t be running about in forest fires.” She laughs when you scowl at her logic.  You roll your eyes.

“Fine. I’ll wait here.” No you won’t.

“Good boy.” Your mom pats you on the head  and turns to sweep out of the room with her candle held high in front of her. You count twenty click clack footsteps before you turn and dash the other way, ducking under the stairs and taking what would be called the servants passage if you had any servants. Sorry, Mom, but you can’t take any risks with this. Plus, you need to at least get high enough to get an internet signal.

On second thought, you backtrack and grab the martini to bring with you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmkay im gonna get one more rose chapter and ill get to john harley, but im kinda not liking this story so ill get to those two and not sure how much further ill go fair warning


End file.
